The Beginning of Patrick Jane
by Ashtreerose
Summary: Patrick Jane had no idea his life would be turned upside down and shaken. A Mentalist fic, with a little bit of Jisbon. :
1. Prologue

**Hello! :) Okay, so this is my attempt to write some angsty, darker stuff. After a while, you get sick of writing sickly sweet, marshmallow fluff about Jisbon. So I'm sorry in advance if it sucks. Haha. :)**

**Huge thank-you to my Beta reader and friend Feralious! Without you this story would be just... blah. And thank you for the awesome chats! And for changing my views about Angst vs. Fluff Mentalist Fan Fiction. If it wasn't for you, I would still be writing endless sickly sweetness. So thanks again. :)**

**(By the way... Although I TRY to make my Fics less fluffy, it's hard for a marshmallow like me to totally cut it out. So this may have a little bit of Jisbon. Maybe. Sorry Feralious. :b)**

**- Ashlee-Rose :)**

**Disclaimer: Of course, the Mentalist isn't mine. Never has been, never will be. I'm happy just watching it and smiling 'till my face hurts. :b**

**Prologue**

The strange thing about life is that, delicate as it is, we never really realise how quickly everything can change. With one stupid decision, we can change the course of our lives, and others' lives, forever. The problem with people is we never realise what we have to lose. Until we discover it's gone.

Close your eyes for a moment, and imagine this. You are a 31 year old man with an incredible talent that you have been developing since you were eight years old. You can read people as though their thoughts are written across their faces, and you use this gift to your advantage. You work as a fake psychic, deceiving people flawlessly for a living, switching off your moral compass as you pretend to contact departed loved ones. In your spare time, you help the California police with cases, enjoying analysing suspects and creating awe in once-sceptical cops. You have a beautiful wife named Angela, and a gorgeous little girl, Charlotte, who is only five years old. A perfect life. A charmed existence. But the fact is - the lucky people are the ones with the most to lose.

The case you have been working on with the police is not going as well as you hoped. A serial killer, named Red John, has been eluding the police for years – and you aren't getting any closer than they have. Doubting your own abilities, you are getting frustrated, disliking the feeling of failure. And you, in your naïve arrogance, decide to provoke him a little, teach him a lesson. Maybe trick him into revealing himself. It can't hurt, right?

Wrong.

After making a fool of him on live television, you head home, feeling grimly pleased with yourself. Calmly and happily, you walk up the staircase of your expensive home, not a care in the world. You are thinking about work, your family, your life. You are blissfully ignorant, and totally unaware that in the next few minutes, your life will change forever with a note on a closed door.

You don't know it yet, but within the next few years, you will see your life become meaningless. Thoughts of revenge and murder will turn your life into a living hell. You will spend time in a mental ward, numb and broken. You will eventually join forces with the most frustrating, feisty, beautiful woman at the California Bureau of Investigation. Your heart will begin to heal, finally.

My name is Patrick Jane. And this is my story.

**Note: This Fic has been in-the-making since about April. I have been so busy with exams (eek). But my holidays are coming up, and new Fan Fiction ideas will be coming out my ears. (I hope.) :)**


	2. Chapter One: The Beginning of the End

**Chapter one is here! :) **

**Enjoy! (Or... Don't. It's a depressing one. I almost cried writing this. )**

**Feralious, without you, this would be awful. So THANKS again. I owe you one! :D**

**Ashlee-Rose :)**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Although I wish I owned Simon Baker... Or at least the life-size cutout you can buy from the CBS website... ;) And some of the sentences were re-constucted by Feralious. :)**

**Chapter One: The Beginning Of The End**

"Mr. Jane? We're ready for you now." The sharp voice of Brenda, a short woman wearing a headset, brought me out of my deep thoughts. I smiled at her, trying to ignore the fact that she was sending out palpable waves of irritation and anger. She was obviously unhappy in her job. But maybe it wasn't the right moment to tell her that. She scowled at someone walking past, her face settling into deeply engraved frown-lines. Yes, definitely unhappy in her job... And her marriage? I shook myself, looking away from her. I tended to accidentally analyse people. It had become a habit, as normal as breathing. Angela hated it.

Standing up from an overly-stuffed chair, I took a last look out the large window at the studio filling with people. I tried to ignore the tiny flutter in my stomach as I glanced at the huge black contraption facing the stage area. The huge audience wasn't a problem for me - it was the live-broadcasting camera I wasn't used to.

_One mistake, Patrick,_ I told myself sternly. _One tiny error in judgement, and you look like either a huge fake or a mental patient, on live tv. _I silenced the inner voice swiftly.

"Thank you, Brenda. Lead the way." With an irate glance in my direction, she began striding down a long corridor, shooing people out of the way as she did. Barely suppressing a smile, I followed, nodding politely at the ruffled co-workers dodging Brenda.

"Patrick!" The shiny host of the show, George Davis, appeared at my side, shaking my hand firmly. Brenda slunk off, without so much as a word in our direction, and the host's gaze flickered to her disdainfully before coming back to me.

His hair was as perfectly maintained as his cheerful demeanour, I noticed, but his eyes flashed with a mixture of interest and greed. I could tell he was excited that he had snapped me up for an interview, and that he thought he was at the forefront of the new 'psychic' trend. I wondered how he would feel if he discovered how I really contacted the dead – through mind tricks and mentalism.

"I am so glad you could join us today! Tea, coffee...?" He gestured largely to a table laden with drinks, causing a woman with a clipboard to duck. "No thank you, Davis." I shook my head politely, and eyed the camera again.

My pocket started making chiming sounds, and I pulled my cellphone out. I smiled at the caller ID, and hit 'Talk'.

"Hey, Ange." Of course my wife was calling me just before I was due to go on. If it wasn't late, it wasn't Angela.

"Hi, honey. Char and I just wanted to wish you good luck with your interview!" I could hear my daughter babbling in the background - "Good luck, daddy! Daddy's on tv soon! Daddy's on tv soon!" I smiled wider hearing her cute squeaky voice. Angela had been telling her 'Daddy's on tv soon!' for days, and now she repeated it like a parrot.

"I'm just putting her to bed and then I'll watch your interview. Are you excited?" Davis was making slight 'hurry' gestures with his hands, and I nodded at him.

"Sorry, Ange, I've got to go. I'll see you later, okay? I love you." She said a quick goodbye before putting Charlotte back on. "Byebye daddy, good luckkkk!" She shrieked in her adorable, five-year-old way. "Bye, Charlotte bear, sweet dreams," I replied, still smiling stupidly.

She was the most important thing in Angela's and my life, the tiny ray of sunshine that shone on our whole house. I hated being away from home at night. I missed reading her favorite story to her, watching her eyes slowly slide shut, and her tiny snores as she fell asleep.

Putting my phone back into my pocket, I stepped out onto the stage, smiling what Angela called my 'winning-psychic smile', and the camera started rolling.

- BREAK -

The whole show ran very smoothly. I quickly picked out the most vulnerable, hopeful person in the audience, a woman sitting in the second row, and called on her for my demonstration. She had recently lost her mother, and promptly began crying when I informed her that her mother was happy. It never failed to surprise me how naïve people could be when blinded by grief and hope.

But then Red John was mentioned. "You're helping the police catch this scary serial killer, aren't you? What's his name, Red John?" Davis asked me curiously, causing the entire audience to suddenly pay much more attention. I felt my mouth go dry, and my body tense up. Very aware of the camera pointing at my face, I swallowed, making sure to disguise all my feelings of frustration. I was certain that the audience could see nothing but polite interest and thought on my face, but the truth was that the Red John case was driving me insane.

He was elusive, careful, and very clever. Even with a mixture of my skills and the Sacramento Police Department's expertise, we were still no closer to uncovering who he was. And I hated it. Every case I had helped with so far had gone perfectly, except for this one. It was a heavy knock to my pride, and I felt an unexpected surge of hatred at Red John for being so damn smart.

Although I only helped by giving the police 'psychic leads', all my educated guesses had been spot on – except about him.

"That's right, Red John," I replied, glancing down at my hands. I knew that I couldn't reveal too much about the actual case, or the police I worked with would be furious, but it couldn't hurt to let them think we had _something_. "He's killed at least eight women, that we know of." The host put on a shocked face, but the hunger for a good story was lingering on the surface, very visible to me. "Terrible..." I added gravely, playing on the audience's palpable emotions.

"Sadistic crimes." I shook my head sadly. "The police asked me to try to get a psychic fix on him, to get a sense of who this man is." This was nonsense, of course. Nobody on earth could get a 'psychic fix' on another person. But these people didn't know that. I started to relax. Maybe I could taunt Red John a little, get him flustered. Maybe it would help.

"How do you do that, exactly? Get a 'psychic fix' on someone?" Davis gestured wildly as he spoke, openly interested. I raised my eyebrows, leaning forward as I thought up the quick answer I told everybody who asked.

"Well, Davis, true demonic evil burns like fire." I smiled very slightly at my dramatic words, enjoying the way they sounded. "It burns with a terrible, cold, dark flame. I force myself to look into that flame, and I see an image of the evil-doer. In this case, Red John." I could tell that I had everybody's full attention now, and one of the audience members was staring with his mouth half open, looking impressed.

"He's an ugly, tormented little man. A lonely soul." I knew I was slightly pushing it now, but I didn't care. Red John was irking me with his elusiveness. I was taking out all my frustration through this, and almost enjoying it. "Sad, very sad." I shook my head slowly, and held back the smile of satisfaction as Davis made the motion to cut to an ad break.

- BREAK -

After the show, Davis came up to me, shaking my hand. "Fascinating, the way you work Mr Jane, simply fascinating. If anything happened to me, I would want you on my case!" I smiled at him, placing an empty paper cup on a nearby table. "Thank you, Davis. This was an interesting experience." I glanced at the clock on the wall, which read 9:00 pm. "Well, I've got to get going. It's a long drive back."

I said goodbye to all the producers and various other people (one woman even wanted an autograph for some absurd reason) and made my way out to the carpark. It was a crisp night, and the sky was lit up by a huge silver moon. I smiled up at it as I unlocked my car, letting the cool breeze ruffle my shirt. For some reason, I felt content, as though everything was right with the world.

After a long and silent drive, I wound my way up the long road to my house at the very end. All the upstairs lights of our sprawling sea-side home were out, except for one small lamp up in our bedroom. I smiled. Angela must have stayed up reading, waiting for me to get home. She had left the downstairs lights on, so I wouldn't trip over the endless scattering of Charlotte's toys and wake up the whole house, like last time. Charlotte had been so upset, thinking her toys had hurt me, sweet little thing she was.

I unlocked the front door, quietly slipping in, and put the mail and keys down on the table. Charlotte's pink tricycle, as always, was parked right in the middle of the hallway. I rolled my eyes as I gently pushed it out of the way. I climbed the stairs, my eyes automatically flicking to the family portraits lining the walls. Angela, all curly dark hair and gorgeous wide smile. Me, smiling too. And Charlotte squished between us, blonde ringlets and doe eyes giving her the look of a sweet little angel. Which she was, I thought as I stepped into the hallway.

I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face as I strode toward Charlotte's bedroom. A quick glance showed me that she wasn't in her bed, but this didn't surprise me. She usually crawled into bed with us at some point during the night, just a phase she was going through currently. She would be fast asleep on my side of the bed, probably. I stepped up to our bedroom door, still smiling-

There was a typed letter taped to the door. My smile faltered, and an ominous feeling settled over me. Haltingly, I began to read.

"_Dear mister Jane,_

_I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grubbing fraud. _

_If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child."_

My stomach turned into a raging ocean of dread and horror. _No._ I stood there, reading and re-reading the words, as though I couldn't process them, like they were in a foreign language. After several long moments, my eyes glazed over. _No._

Although my brain was screaming '_Don't open the door! Just run away, run now!_', I saw my hand slowly reach out and turn the knob. Silence. A slight creaking sound as the door moved inward, revealing the mostly-darkened room.

And then I saw it. I wanted to close my eyes, but they seemed to be glued open. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I thought I was going to die.

The smiley face on the wall was red. It dripped, seeming to cry and smile at the same time in an eerie, very wrong way. There was a lamp aimed at it, specifically placed so it could be seen. I knew that symbol well. I had seen it countless times in the past few years. All these details triggered in my mind, linking to one thought, one main idea.

_Red John. Red John. Red John._ The name reverberated around my brain, getting louder and more frantic. Like a sleepwalker, I stumbled into the room. I saw Angela first.

She was lying on the ground, face peaceful, eyes closed. Her dark hair was splayed around her pale face like a halo. My Angela, my angel. She was perfect, except for the dark red cuts in her torso, the blur of red covering her shredded t-shirt. Her favorite t-shirt, the one that used to be mine, all soft and thin with wear. My legs trembled, and I fell to my knees, a choking sound escaping. I reached out numbly, and brushed her cheek. She was as cold as the man who had killed her.

For some reason, I suddenly couldn't stop staring at her feet. The nails were painted red. Angela never painted her toenails, I thought to myself, thinking I was going insane. But then I realised.

Red John had _painted_ her _toenails_ with her own_ blood_. I felt sick. My chin wobbled, and I heard an unearthly cry, only dimly realising it was coming from me.

As though there was some magnetic pull, my head turned. And I saw Charlotte, my baby, my child.

"No!" I whimpered, the single syllable full of grief. She was lying on my side of the bed. Her sunshine-coloured corkscrew curls were matted to her forehead with scarlet, and her face, like Angela's, looked angelically still.

I collapsed forward, feeling blood beneath my cheek, staring at Charlotte's lifeless hand in my direct field of vision, hanging off the edge of the bed. I was unable of doing anything other than stare at that hand, as though I was dead myself. It was so small. So delicate, like china.

I don't know how long I lay there, red soaking into my hair and shirt. When the sun rose, I watched the smiley face on the wall slowly illuminate. _This is my fault,_ I thought numbly, staring at the drying red symbol._ I _had_ to say those things. I couldn't just leave it alone. My arrogance and stupidity killed them._

The orange morning sun fell on Angela, seeming to wrap its rays around her lifeless face, like a golden halo. The room got warmer, and warmer, and warmer. The salty, dirty smell of drying blood was suddenly inside my nose, my throat, making me choke. I sat up, head spinning with the sudden movement, but all I could think about was the smell.

I stumbled to my feet, feeling the crust of blood on my forehead, hair, cheek, neck, arms... The sensation sickened me – it felt as though my skin was on fire. Suddenly every cell in my body wanted to get rid of it, starting with my stomach.

Before I even knew how I got there, I was wrenching the front door open. Staggering down the front steps, I fell to my knees in the bushes outside the house, immediately throwing up the bile in my empty stomach. The sharp taste finally overrode the other tang, of blood. I wretched, pathetically sprawled in the dirt. There was a rhythmic pounding in my ears. My heart? I wasn't even aware my organs were still functioning.

But the pounding was getting louder, closer, it couldn't be my heart – then it suddenly stopped.

"Hello?" The voice made me jump, panicking. I looked up to see a man, a jogger, pulling a headphone out of his ear. His eyes widened at the sight of my face, travelling from the blood in my hair to the completely red-soaked shirt I wore. "Oh my _god_." He frantically began dialling a number, telling someone on the other end of the line what he had found, and where he was. He asked if I was okay. I couldn't answer. The words didn't even register in my head. Although I was outside, away from them, I could still see them... Their pale, serene faces, such an appalling contrast to the blood that covered them.

As though my feelings were finally awakened at this image, I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks, a cruel reminder that I was still alive.

And that they were not.

**Anyone else feel like crying? :(**

**This is probably the most gory, sad, awful chapter I've ever had to write. And I felt so bad for Jane right now :( Strangely, this was quite an experience for me, like I was living the moment along with Jane. Ugh. I need some tea.**

**- Ashlee-Rose**


	3. Chapter Two: Numb

**Chapter two. This one should be a little less depressing than the last one. Or more depressing, depending on how you look at it. Haha.**

**Only two days until I am totally free of school for the next two and a half months! I will be posting the next chapter in a few weeks, most likely. And then I will have endless free time to write more stories! I'm really excited – there are already some ideas stirring in my brain. :)**

**Ashlee-Rose**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda yadda. Etc etc. :b**

**Chapter Two: Numb**

I was staring blankly at the pink tricycle in the hallway. It was so small, with little silver tassels, and a bright red bell. I closed my eyes. I could still hear that high-pitched chiming, the sound that often woke me on lazy weekend mornings. I opened my eyes. The police were asking me questions. So many questions. I couldn't answer any of them.

"Mr. Jane?" I blinked, looking up at a concerned-looking policeman sitting opposite me. The Sacramento Police Department, whom I usually worked with, were swarming through my house like ants on honey. They were excited about the fact Red John 'broke pattern'. Meaning he killed a young child as well as a woman. For revenge. For punishment. _Yes, it is all very exciting,_ I thought dimly. _Unless you're me. This isn't a case – it's my life. "_Mr. Jane, are you alright?"

I took a shaky breath, twisting my wedding ring around on my finger repeatedly, the skin there red from this continuous action. 'Am I alright?' The question of the night. I was so numb, raw, I didn't even know.

"Please, just ask your questions." I replied, my voice coming out broken and ragged. The cop was sitting in Angela's favorite chair. The one with the worn-down armrests and the small dark stain, made by red wine a long time ago. He was obviously a new officer, young, nervous, but slightly cocky below the surface - he infuriated me for some baffling reason. The young cop nodded, like he understood (how could he understand?), and scribbled something in his small black notebook.

I pressed my fingers to my forehead, feeling the nails digging into my skin. It must have hurt, but I couldn't tell. I was numb, numb from the pain inside me. It over-rode all my senses.

"Mr. Jane, where were you at aproximately 8:30 pm last night?" The words were spoken quickly, but with a cautious edge. My hand fell from my face in shock. Staring at the officer, I felt my blood pressure rise substantially, and my breath become shorter. I resisted the urge to hit him, but only just. He was questioning _me,_ like I was a _suspect_?

"Please understand, this is only routine." The officer must have seen the turbulent emotions on my face, (an unusual occurrence – normally he wouldn't have been able to see my emotions at all, even if I was about to stab him). "We have to interview everyone close to the victims, to confirm that they didn't see anything, or... do... anything." He paused, looking like he wanted to swallow his words. I wished he could, too. "I just-"

"I was on a live talk show, infuriating a serial killer." I burst out, cutting him off halfway. My voice no longer sounded weak – on the contrary, it was sharp, violent. He looked quite taken aback, but scribbled in his notebook again. He cleared his throat nervously, but continued as he had been taught to. Keeping totally calm, unlike me. "Can anyone confirm this?" He asked awkwardly as he wrote.

I chuckled, but it was a dark, scary sound, not humorous at all. By this point I was so delirious with grief, anger and guilt, I couldn't have told you my own middle name. "Oh, I don't know, half of California?" I said sarcastically, bitterly. The cop glanced up at me, taking in my expression, but went back to writing.

I looked up, over his head, suddenly noticing that all the officers I normally worked with were staring at me. I realised I must have been raising my voice. When they saw me watching, they all busied themselves with various things around them, looking sheepish. But I had seen their expressions.

They looked at me with sympathy. Like they _knew_ what I was going through. As though they could _sympathise_ with my being responsible for the _death_ of my _wife and child_? How could _they_ know _anything_!

Vaguely, I noticed that I was now standing. Everyone was shamelessly staring now. The police, coroners, forensics team. I stood still, breathing heavily, looking back at them all.

And then I saw them. Body bags, two white ones, being carted down the stairs. One was big, human-sized, and the other was folded up at the bottom, to fit the miniature person inside. Charlotte hated small spaces. She would feel claustrophobic if she knew... If she knew... But she couldn't. She would never know anything ever again.

Suddenly I felt sick, queasy beyond belief. I needed to get out, get away from all these people who didn't understand. Those body bags were there because of me. The bodies in them, they were my fault. My stomach heaved upwards, as if it was trying to escape. I felt surrounded, stared at, an animal in a cramped, hot zoo.

I lurched forward, angling myself toward the open door, fresh air, empty space. This was too much. They should be finding Red John, not questioning me!

But then a heavy, sweaty hand was laid on my forearm."Mr. Jane, wait! I have more ques-" Without even a thought, I turned and punched him in the face. My knuckles clicked as they made hard contact with the young policeman's nose. He cried out, and I felt his meaty fingers release my arm, satisfied.

But then I realised what I had done. Red poured down his mouth and chin, and he stared at me with pain and shock in his eyes, clutching his bloody face. Blood... Blood... The blood that had been all over my bedroom. Angela's and Charlotte's blood.

I fell to my knees, eyes turning watery, as the chief officer cuffed my hands behind my back. I didn't struggle. I deserved it. When they put me in the back of a van, I went in quietly. The doors shut me into darkness, and I was finally in the silent, calm world I had been looking for. I closed my eyes, feeling something inside me tear away.

_So this is insanity,_ I thought with a humorless smile, putting my head into my hands in defeat.

- BREAK -

A small, square room. Concrete walls, one door. The straight-backed chair I sat in was hard, unyielding. A second chair sat across from me, empty. My wrists were handcuffed together. I noted these details in a sweep of my gaze, although it didn't really register completely in my brain.

I couldn't even remember how I got here. All I recalled was sitting in the back of a van... But then nothing. Nothing but darkness.

The door opened, making me look up. Through slightly hazy vision, I saw a woman walking towards me. She stopped in front of me, lightly resting a hand on my arm. I didn't even flinch, just continued to stare at her blankly. I didn't know where I was, why I was there, or who this woman was. She bent down so that she was at my eye-level, her pale blue eyes gazing into mine, gentle, but tough at the same time.

"Hello, Patrick. My name is Dr. Sophie Miller. I'm going to help you get better."

- BREAK -

I didn't know how long I had been in that room, but it seemed like years. Dr. Miller came and went, flitting in and out like a butterfly. There were other doctors, too. They fed me pills, bitter and acidic at the same time, and made me eat, even when I told them I couldn't. I felt like a child, being cared for by these people. I would have felt insulted, except for the fact that I barely felt emotion at all.

The tall balding man in a white coat handed me a small cup, with three pills inside. One round blue, one round white, and one oval, half blue and half white. The same every day. A routine. Bald man, small cup, three pills. I followed through with the movements robotically, putting the small capsules on the back of my tongue, gulping down half the cup of water that was placed in my hand. The doctor murmured meaningless words before leaving again through the heavy white door I wasn't allowed near.

I stared into the paper cup, watching the lights above my head reflect in the leftover water. When I tilted the cup, they looked like they were flashing... Like a string of tiny carnival lights... _Carnival lights..._

- Flashback -

"_Patrick! String up the lights, will ya?" My father's stressed voice, suddenly floating through the window, made me jump. "We're on a tight schedule here, boy, so get your ass into gear and help me set up!" I scrambled to my feet, tossing the dog-eared book to the floor of our small caravan. _

"_Yeah, I'll be right out!" I called, rummaging through the stack of boxes near the door. My father wasn't one to be messed with, and especially not during The Great Set -Up. It was our job to turn a normal field into a magical carnival overnight, and it was not an easy job. _

_Pulling out two huge spools of fairy lights, I jumped the stairs, landing hard on the grass, and made my way towards the cluster of brightly coloured tents. My father was standing on a ladder, securing a large banner to the side of a tent - "The Amazing Boy Wonder!" I swallowed and glanced away._

_Ever since the incident with the sick little girl and her hopeful grandmother, I had felt sick to the stomach at every thought of my 'Boy Wonder' act. It didn't feel right anymore. Not at all._

_Besides, I could only be 'The Boy Wonder' for so long. Now that I was 18, I was more like just 'The Wonder'. I couldn't really pass for a boy anymore._

_My father glanced up, noticing me and smiling briefly. "Ah, Patrick, there you are. Put those up all around. Try to create a-"_

"_'-Sense of magic and wonder', dad, I know." I finished for him, exasperated. He said the same words every time I put the lights up. I hooked the wire end of the lights around a nearby pole, pretending to be totally focused on my job. I could feel my father's eyes on me still, but I ignored him, winding the string of bulbs around the tents expertly. _

"_Alex? Alex Jane?" My head snapped up automatically at the sound of my father's name being called. A portly man was striding over to us, arms outstretched, face astonished and pleased at the same time. A petite girl, around my age, was trailing along behind him, eyes darting around curiously. She had long dark curls and huge brown eyes, giving her a look of innocence, but I saw right through it. She was obviously a Carnie. And Carnies were never innocent – our whole lives were based around deception. She, like me, had probably known how to trick Norms since the moment she could talk._

"_John!" My father exclaimed, surprised, and the two men shook hands roughly. "It's been too long!" His head craned around to look at the girl, who was staring intently at the 'Boy Wonder' sign, as though she was trying to memorise it. "And is this Angela?"_

_She paused, turning to my father with a smile. "Hello, Mr. Jane." Her voice was soft and feminine, and again, deceptively innocent. My father shook his head in disbelief._

"_Last time I saw you, you were about this tall!" He indicated a height somewhere near his waist, and I rolled my eyes. Why did people always say that? As though they actually expected you to stay the same height forever? My father's eyes locked onto me, and he waved me over._

"_Patrick! Come and meet an old friend of mine, John Ruskin." I dropped the spool of lights, walking over to them. Angela Ruskin looked at me, smiling faintly, and I smiled back, noticing how pretty she was. _

"_Nice to meet you, Patrick," John shook my hand firmly, hands calloused and rough from carnival work. "I've heard about your attraction. 'The Amazing Boy Wonder', eh? I've heard you are an amazingly accurate mind reader and psychic." He leaned closer, eyes twinkling. "How do you do it, Patrick, eh? Let me in on your little magic trick." My father clapped his hands loudly. _

"_Now, John, we can't be giving away all our secrets, can we? Then there would be no show!" John's eyes darkened for a split second – but I saw it, of course. There was obviously some rivalry between he and my father. But then he smiled, waving a hand dismissively._

"_Ah, well, we have our own little secrets too, don't we Ange?" She rolled her eyes at her father, shooting an amused glance at me._

"_Right, well, Patrick, you keep hanging the lights." My father gestured at the half-hung string of fairy lights pooled on the grass. I nodded, smiling at the Ruskins. "Nice meeting you," I said sincerely, meeting Angela's gaze before going back to my job. _

_I picked up the roll of lights I was using, continuing the tedious process of winding the wire around everything in sight. But then I saw dainty, freckled hands pick up the second spool. I looked up in surprise. _

_Angela smiled at me, dimples appearing in her cheeks. "Want some help?" She asked, already expertly stringing the lights from a second tent. I smiled at her, feeling a tiny bit better about this carnival already._

_FLASH FORWARD_

"_Patrick?" Angela shifted slightly from where she was leaning on my chest, turning her head to face me. I looked down at her perfect face, then tilted my head back to watch the stars again. "Mmm?" I replied lazily, gently pulling her closer to me. _

_We were sitting on the top of a hill overlooking her family's carnival, escaping the madness that was Carnie life for a few hours. We had been together for six months, and I was already certain we had something stronger than just a crush._

_I had been wrong the first time I met her – though she was a Carnie, she was as innocent as her eyes appeared. She refused to trick people, and instead, she was in charge of the animals. She took good care of them, and every one of those creatures loved her – As did every person she met._

_Her head was resting against my neck, the curls tickling my throat lightly, and I could smell the sweet scent of vanilla that I associated with her. Beautiful Angela._

"_I want us to leave." Her sudden statement took me by surprise, and I paused, then sat up abruptly, watching her face carefully for signs of deception. I saw none. _

"_Wait, what?" I asked, surprised. Angela gazed back at me, her dark eyes unwavering. "I want us to leave." She repeated, gaze searching mine. "Get out of this life, now, while we still can." I sat back, leaning against my palms in the cool grass._

"_What, like... Leave, leave? For good? Right now?" She nodded, a small smile spreading across her face."Yeah." _

_I blinked, slightly dumbfounded. Generally, I was very difficult to surprise – I could normally see an idea on a person's face before they even thought about saying it. But Angela... This girl had a way of constantly astonishing me. _

_I tilted my head, seriously considering the idea. I had been dreaming about escaping my father and his beloved carnival for years, as had Angela. We could leave. Together. Our fathers wouldn't even realise we were gone until the morning, and by then, we could be in a totally different state... A different country, even. The idea made me smile faintly, and of course, Angela saw it. She smiled too, eyes glinting with hope._

"_I want that too." I said finally. She grinned, a breaktaking display of happiness, and bounced to her feet._

"_Well then let's go." She held out a hand to me, sillhouetted for a moment against the dark sky. And I took it._

_FLASH FORWARD_

_Hospitals had a strange feelings to them. Like life and death both wrapped into one terrifying place. I sat in a rock-hard plastic chair, foot jiggling nervously. My eyes darted around, watching the nurses rushing in and out of the double doors I had been shoved out of half an hour ago._

_Angela was having a baby. I was going to be a father. Those thoughts were hard to wrap my head around in themselves. But the fact that Angela was having trouble with the birth was a thought that I couldn't even begin to comprehend. I didn't want to._

_She had been going through contractions, in pain, but relatively alright. I had been holding her hand, pushing her hair back, in shock. But then the red light had started to flash. There had been an awful beeping sound. And nurses had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, shoving me towards the exit. _

_And here I was. Unable to witness my own child's birth. And I was terrified, to say the least._

_I could vividly remember the moment I had found out Ange was pregnant. She had walked into the lounge, a dazed smile on her face. I had looked up from my book, concerned and a little confused at her expression. "Ange? What's wrong?" But then she had uttered those life-changing words, seeming to hover in the air before us like glowing fireflies - "Patrick, I'm pregnant."_

"_Mr. Jane?" I jumped, looking up to see a woman in a white coat, sweaty, but with an exhausted smile. My stomach lurched. "Do you want to come and meet your daughter?"_

_My world slowed for a moment. I had a child. A _daughter_. It was such a strange idea to comprehend. And I couldn't, yet. Numbly, I stood, allowing myself to be led through the doors once again._

_Angela sat up in the bed, face glowing with sweat and happiness. In her arms was a tiny blanketed form, wisps of golden hair sticking straight up from a round head._

_As I reached the bed, a tiny hand extended from the blanket, and two huge brown eyes blinked at me from a sweet plump face._

"_Charlotte Anne Jane," Angela said quietly. And I fell in love again._

_FLASH FORWARD_

_I opened the front door, pulling my jacket off and tossing it on the table with a weary sigh. It had been a long day – working with the police tired me out. I began to walk toward the kitchen, but the sound of a high-pitched giggle made me stop. And then the unmistakable 'Fur Elise' began to play. _

_I abruptly changed direction, following the beautiful music with a smile. I rounded the corner, and there they were, my two girls. Angela's fingers flowed across the keys, while Charlotte stared in intense concentration. Suddenly she looked up, cute face breaking into a huge smile._

"_Daddy, look what I can do!" She trilled excitedly, beginning her own clumsy version of the classical piece with a 5-year-old's chubby fingers. Angela's eyes found mine, and we both smiled, watching Charlotte with the adoring gaze of doting parents._

_My world is perfect._

- End flashback -

"Patrick?" I jumped, dropping the cup clutched in my sweaty hand, and rubbed my eyes, dazed. I felt tingly all over, and my mind was filled with the lingering image of Angela and Charlotte at that piano... "Patrick, are you alright?" The click of high heeled shoes coming towards me, a warm hand touching mine. I finally opened my eyes, actually_ seeing_ something for the first time in weeks. Dr. Miller gazed into my eyes with concern, brow furrowed.

I nodded slightly, and this seemed to sate her. She straightened and began to mop up the puddle of water with a paper towel. I watched her, feeling slightly less numb than before. Something had changed.

And that is where it begun. Those flashbacks, those memories – somehow they pulled me back into the present, back to life. I don't know where they came from or why they suddenly took me, but I am convinced that moment, seeing my family again, even just in my mind, saved my sanity.

After a while, my senses began to return. Not all at once, but gradually, gently. Some of my old mannerisms were coming back, and my emotions were becoming normal again. I even found myself analysing some of the doctors sometimes, figuring them out, like I used to do for a living.

I was getting sick of the institute. Sick of being alone all the time, except for doctors. Sick of this god-forsaken room, with its white walls and heavy door.

And I was thinking about Red John, more every day. It had started with just a fleeting thought – that a man, out there somewhere right now, had murdered my family, and many other innocent women. But then it grew into an idea. And that idea grew into an obsession.

A faceless man with bloody hands haunted my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking and sleeping moment. The red face on the wall leered from every crevice of my mind. I was convinced that if I didn't get out of this hospital, the feelings inside me would eat me alive. A boiling hatred, a blood-thirsty need for revenge – it filled my entire being like white-hot poison. Sometimes while lying wide awake at night, I would find myself literally shaking with supressed rage.

I had to get out.

Dr. Miller was standing at the small table (bolted down, of course) in the corner of my room. She was signing off some paperwork, brow furrowed with concentration.

"How long have I been here?" The words blurted from my mouth, hoarse and scratchy, and Dr. Miller paused, then spun around to stare at me in surprise. It was the first time I'd spoken without being prompted, and I could see her itching to make notes about it, like I was some sort of observed species.

"Almost seven months," She said with a sad smile. "Time flies, doesn't it?" Her eyes were kind, I noted, and she radiated a sort of angelic empathy. She was the only one of the doctors in this place I could actually stand.

I nodded, absorbing this new information. It seemed like I had been there much longer, but then again, I hadn't been doing much except thinking.

I glanced up over Dr. Miller's head, at the white door. The door that stood between me and partial freedom. I looked back at Dr. Miller, who was still watching me curiously.

"What would it take for me to be let out of here?" I asked carefully. I had been thinking very hard about my situation, and had come to the conclusion that the more sane I acted, the sooner I could leave. The sooner I could find and kill Red John.

Dr. Miller opened her mouth, then closed it again, obviously carefully calculating her answer. She tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, watching me. I was sure to keep my face emotionless. The less she could see of my thoughts, the better off I was. Finally, she spoke.

"Well essentially, you have to undergo a thorough psycho-analysis. And I, as your doctor, have to be absolutely convinced you aren't a danger to others or yourself. Then you will be put into a different, more social ward, to make sure you interact okay with others." She paused, gazing at me closely. "And then, only once I give the thumbs up, you will be able to leave."

I nodded, thinking it over. Psycho-analysis? I could easily get through that. Social interaction? Absolutely fine. Interacting with people was my strong suit.

In my mind, I was ready to leave. And nothing would stand in my way of hunting down Red John like the animal he was.

**This chapter was quite a bit longer than I originally planned. But, oh well. :)**

**I'm not going to lie – I loved writing Jane's flashbacks. So, so much. I feel like Mentalist fans all too often forget that Jane's family meant the world to him, and that Angela was the love of his life, from when he was a teenager. **

**Plus, the idea of Jane in love is just adorable. He would be so cute, and I think he would have been an absolutely doting father. In my mind, Charlotte was probably very much adored by him. :)**

**Anyway, I think there will be about one more chapter, possibly two. Depending on how carried away I get. :)**

**By the way – I have NO idea what goes on in a mental hospital - I used artistic liscence here, added to the tiny snippets of what I do know. So if I got some details horribly, crazily wrong... I'm sorry? Haha.**

**Thanks so much for reading! It literally means THE WORLD to me when you comment. So please give me some feedback! (Even if it is criticism, I live for the feedback I get.)**

**- Ashlee-Rose :)**


	4. Chapter Three: The CBI Homicide Unit

**Chapter three! Just so you know, I have a huge Classical Studies exam in three days. I should be studying. But instead I'm writing. Oh, well. It's not like I want to be a classical historian, or anything. I would much rather be a writer. :)**

**Again, thanks for reading! I am always so surprised by the amount of people who actually read my Fics. :) I want to give you all a hug and a cupcake. If I could, I _actually would_.**

**Ashlee-Rose :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist. How about it, Bruno Heller? CBS? Wanna give it to me? No? Okay then. Whatever. :b**

**Chapter Three: The CBI Homicide Unit**

I stood there staring. Just staring. The face on the wall was every bit as terrifying as it had been the first time. But this time, the fear was eaten alive by vicious anger. I tore my gaze away, pressing my fingertips into my closed eyelids until it hurt, breathing hard.

I didn't know what to do. I had the bucket of soapy water at my feet, a sponge in my hand. Ready to scrub the mocking symbol from the wall of my bedroom, to erase all traces of that man from my house. But I couldn't. I swallowed hard, sitting down on the floor in the middle of the empty room.

As sick as it seemed, I couldn't wipe the long-dried blood off my wall. Not until it was over. And it would only ever be over when Red John was on the ground before me, screaming through an agonising death. I smiled at the image. I would get rid of the smile on the wall once I got rid of the man who had painted it.

Standing up abruptly, I began pacing, feeling restless. It had only been two days since my release from the hospital. I had come home to a stripped-bare house, except for three boxes – one for Angela, one for Charlotte, and one for me - filled with our belongings. And, of course, the symbol on the wall.

I hadn't touched either of the boxes of items that had belonged to Ange and Charlotte. Just looking at the ragged blue rabbit ear poking out of the second box had made me want to rip my hair out. I took a deep breath, focusing my mind back on Red John.

How do you catch an un-traceable serial killer? _You don't._ I thought, heart sinking like a lead weight. But then I mentally shook myself. _No,_ I thought firmly, boiling hatred replacing the dread. _I WILL CATCH AND MURDER THAT SON OF A BITCH._

Pulling my cellphone out of my pocket (I had discovered it inside my belongings box and charged it), I rang the number stored under 'Sac PD'. I had known it would come down to this, known for a while. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't do this totally alone. My heart began to thump harder as the phone rang. And then -

"Lewis." The familiar voice of Detective William Lewis hit me hard, making me swallow. He had been the main cop 'in charge' of me, and we had developed a close bond. Well, by that, I meant that I had analysed him and then used my 'psychic powers' on him. I swallowed, feeling sick at the thought of my past life.

"Hey, Will. It's Patrick Jane." Silence. Then the reply, hesitant, shocked, softer. "Jane? Is that really you? How... How are you, man?" He sounded genuinely concerned, which I appreciated, but ignored.

"I'm fine. Listen, Will. Do you think there is any chance I could come back in? Start helping you guys with cases again? You know, like I used to." Again, there was silence, an even longer pause this time. Finally, he spoke.

"Jane, we don't have the Red John case anymore." His voice was quiet, like he was trying not to spook me, and also didn't want to be overheard. My heart seemed to stop. _They didn't have the case anymore?_ I also dimly realised that Lewis instantly knew my intentions in calling him – knew that the only thing I cared about was the Red John case.

"It was passed on to the California Bureau of Investigation, their homicide unit. They have a pretty high success rate, and it's usually good to let another few sets of eyes take in the case. To get new insights and ideas, you know? Plus, we weren't moving anywhere with it." He said this in a hurried rush of words, and it dawned on me that he probably wasn't supposed to tell anyone this, much less me.

I thought quickly. If the Sac PD had let me work alongside them, surely this Bureau would too? "Listen, Lewis – Could you possibly do me a favor?" I knew he would before he even answered. Lewis was a good cop, great, even, but his sense of loyalty and friendship was much stronger than anything else. He was a very decent guy. He only paused for a second.

"What is it, Jane?" I took a deep breath, praying (for the first time in my life) that he would be able to pull it off. "Could you help me get into the CBI? You know, be a... A consultant, like I was with the Sac PD." I held my breath. There was a long pause. Then, finally-

"Luckily for you, Jane, I have good friends high up in the CBI. I'll see what I can do." I exhaled, smiling slightly. "Thank you so much, Lewis, I owe you big time." The soft reply. "Yes, you do." A click. Lewis was gone.

- BREAK -

I pushed the 'Up' button on the elevator in the CBI's lobby, still reading the sign beside it with confusion. Instead of saying obvious things, like 'Homicide Unit, 4th Floor', it said things like '204, 4th Floor'. I was perplexed, a rare occurence, and could not, for the life of me, figure out what the numbers corresponded to. At this point, I figured 'Up' on the elevator had to take me somewhere close to where I wanted... Hopefully.

"You lost? Those numbers are a pain for visitors – nobody knows where the heck they're going." I turned to see a petite woman with a shiny dark ponytail, downing her last mouthful of coffee from a paper cup. She was carrying a briefcase and a huge stack of papers with surprising ease for such small arms. She was wearing a stern-looking grey suit and had a tired face. Obviously an agent. Of course, the bulge of a gun at the base of her jacket was another major indicator. I smiled slightly at her, nodding absently.

"Oh, I was just planning on riding the elevator until I found the right place," I told her, watching the numbers slowly decrease as the elevator made its way down to the lobby. The woman nodded slowly like she didn't understand, a crease in her forehead, but a supressed smile touched her lips. I couldn't help but notice the way her eyes travelled around my face, and I wondered what that was all about.

"Right... Because that is easier than just _asking_ for help." She raised her eyebrows at me, silently telling me to ask her for directions. But I wasn't giving in that easily. I shook my head.

"Oh, it's fine. I have a good sense of direction, I'll find where I'm going in no time." I briefly flashed a grin at her, and the elevator dinged, opening its doors for us.

The woman rolled her eyes (which I couldn't help but notice were huge, and a unique shade of deep green) and stepped into the elevator beside me. "I'm sure you will." She hit the '7th Floor' button with her elbow, and glanced at me, as though still waiting for me to ask her for help. The doors closed with another ding. I simply looked back at her innocently, and she sighed, impatient with me already.

_She's awfully bossy for someone I've just met,_ I thought to myself, amused. I had liked her almost instantly, for some weird reason – lately I didn't truly like (or trust) anyone, but this stranger had an odd sense of calm that made me warm up to her straight away.

"What department are you looking for?" She asked, tilting her head to the side as she studied me with a startlingly perceptive gaze. "The Homicide Unit," I answered, with a now sober expression. She studied me for a few more seconds, then shuffled her stack of papers to the other arm and extended a tiny hand to me.

"Agent Teresa Lisbon. I lead the CBI Homicide Unit." She smiled slightly at my taken-aback expression. _Huh. She's such a... Tiny woman, to be a leader._ I could tell from her steely exterior that she was tough, but there was a flicker of a soft side in the depths of her gaze that I had noticed straight away. Good qualities for a boss and a cop, which she was both. I smiled back at her, taking her hand and shaking it. Her fingers were slim and cool, and wrapped perfectly around mine as we shook firmly.

"Well, isn't that a happy coincidence?" I said, pulling my hand away as the elevator doors opened. "Mmm," She hummed, flicking a glance at me curiously as we exited the into the wide space beyond the elevator.

"So what are you here for?" She asked bluntly, getting straight to business. I looked directly into her eyes, showing her my serious intentions. "My name is Patrick Jane, I'm a new consultant who will be assisting you with the Red John case. I am an expert on his patterns and crimes." At the thought of him, as usual, my thoughts turned red and burning. Agent Lisbon must have noticed the change in my demeanor, because her body language suddenly became curious, as though she knew of the murderous thoughts in my mind.

"Oh, _you're_ Patrick Jane. Of course, Minelli told me you'd be coming in sometime this week." She paused, stopping me in my tracks too, and looked at me. I was startled at the intensity of her gaze, but held it nevertheless. Her eyes darkened with something like sympathy, and I knew she must be aware of my past. Although my stint at the mental hospital had been... Somewhat altered on my record, courtesy of Detective Lewis.

Agent Lisbon seemed to realise she was staring at me, and averted her eyes, beginning to walk again, this time taking bigger strides. I noticed her cheeks flushing slightly red, and again, I was confused. She definitely wasn't as easy to read as I'd first thought.

We entered a large, airy room, with a wall of windows boasting an impressive view of Sacramento. There were many desks, a few small plants, and a very impressive looking couch against the wall. Two men sat at opposite desks, chatting across the room. One of them stood as we came in, and I was even more impressed by Agent Lisbon's tiny stature – this agent towered over her by at least two whole heads.

He had a kind, soft demeanor, but it was covered by his tough, bulky exterior. My initial impression was of a Newfoundland dog – seemingly scary and strong, but in reality, a complete softie. The agent had a badly-knotted tie that he kept fiddling with, a sign he was intimidated by his tiny boss.

The second agent was a stocky Asian man with a stony facial expression. He looked up from scribbing something on a post-it note as we entered. This man was obviously a more senior agent to the Newfoundland, because he seemed more at ease with his boss, calm and unintimidated. This cool indifference was partly an act, I could see, but something about him was truly stone-like.

Both the men watched me curiously, but as soon as we were in the room, Agent Lisbon dived in, voice more commanding than before – her 'boss voice', I assumed.

"This is Patrick Jane, our new consultant. He is going to be working with us on the Red John case, since he helped the Sac PD with it last year." The agents nodded at me in acknowledgement. Agent Lisbon turned to me. "This is Agent Rigsby," She pointed at Newfoundland, who raised a hand and smiled. "And this is Agent Cho." The Asian man nodded at me, straight-faced. "We also have another agent joining us in a couple of months, a rookie named Van Pelt." I nodded, taking this new information in.

Agent Lisbon turned to Agent Cho, ignoring me momentarily. "Cho, could you re-check Kasey Brooke's alibi for the St. James case? She still seems sketchy on the details of what she was supposedly doing." He continued to write on the post-it note, nodding. "Thanks. And Rigsby, would you please call the lab, see if they've got any matches yet for the partial prints from the victim?" He picked up the office phone in front of him. "Sure, boss."

Lisbon's eyes flickered to the comfy-looking couch against the wall, and she frowned slightly. "Since when have we had a couch?" She asked the two agents, brow furrowing as she gazed at it. Rigsby spoke up, shrugging slightly. "Agent Holden's team on the 3rd Floor found it on the side of the road, and brought it up, but it didn't fit in any of their offices. We had space to fill, so..." He shrugged again, turning his attention back to the phone.

"Huh," Lisbon said, still staring at the brown leather couch. After a second, she spun around to face me, and, gesturing for me to follow, walked out into the hallway. She held open a door for me reading 'Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon' – her office. She put the stack of paper and the briefcase down gently on her desk, and began to pull filing boxes out from the shelf behind it.

"Red John case..." She muttered under her breath as she dug through the boxes, cracking open each one to double check. Her brunette hair fluttered around, the ponytail swishing gently as she vigorously searched through the boxes. I couldn't help but slightly smile. She was such a sharp, acidic, tiny woman, and I couldn't help but like her.

"Here," She announced, pulling a box out from the very bottom labelled 'RED JOHN CASE' in boxy black letters. My stomach twisted at the sight of it. Lisbon stood, handing me the box, and her eyes, sharp as green glass, softened slightly.

"Do you want to take a coffee break first?" She offered, smiling sympathetically. I paused, looking from the box to Lisbon. Before I did this, I would need some calming down.

"Do you have tea, by any chance?" Lisbon's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I think so, somewhere... Ick." I felt my eyes widen. "You don't like tea?" I asked her, shocked. _How could anyone not like tea? It's like a hug in a cup!_

She shook her head, leading me out into a small kitchen opposite her office. "No way, too bitter. I have a strong love for strong coffee." She smiled, meeting my gaze. I was surprised to see her pupils slightly dialate. She was attracted to me? Surely not. I broke eye contact, feeling uncomfortable and slightly awkward.

With a slight cough, Lisbon began digging through a cupboard. She extracted two coffee mugs and a battered-looking, ancient box of tea bags. She handed them to me, shrugging.

"Sorry, that's the best I can do." I shook my head at the lack of proper teacups, but I made my tea without complaining. I would have to bring my own favorite blue teacup and saucer, not to mention a decent box of teabags, for tomorrow. Lisbon made her coffee, making a face at my tea, and we stood at the counter in a slightly awkward silence. I smiled at her as I left the room.

I took my tea and the Red John case, and with only a second's hesitation, sat on the brown leather couch. It was just as comfortable as I expected.

Lying back, I propped my head up on the armrest, picking up the first paper from the case. But before I began to read it, a peculiar shaped stain on the ceiling caught my eye. It looked... Like Elvis. _Strange. _Shaking my head, I began to read, feeling upon me the curious eyes of my new colleagues.

It was going to be an interesting year.

**Done! :)**

**I was hoping to have it longer, but since it was only the 'beginning' of Patrick Jane, it had to end. :(**

**I couldn't help but add subtle Jane/Lisbon themes in, because I genuinely believe they would have had very strong chemistry, even from the beginning. Lisbon isn't just staring at him because she's curious about his past... Haha.**

**I hope you enjoyed this, and please review - let me know if you liked it, or if you didn't. I'm open to all feedback! :)**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**- Ashlee-Rose :)**


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